Green
by mattmetzger
Summary: Jim liked green, right up until the moment it all went wrong. Established K/S. Severe angst warning. Oneshot.


**Notes: Established K/S relationship.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.**

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Jim liked green, right up until the moment it all went wrong.

* * *

He woke that morning with Spock half on top of him, head tucked into the juncture of Jim's neck and shoulder, and obviously deeply asleep. The bone-deep contentment in Jim's bones reminded him exactly why Spock was still in his bed this morning, and he grinned like a fool - wide and uncontrolled and probably looking like a complete fuckwit.

He didn't really care, though.

He took his time, carding his fingers through that thick dark hair, and ruffling it up even more than it already was. Eventually, with enough brushes of his fingertips against the pointed tips of the ears, and with enough light scratches against that sensitive scalp, a deep rumble of unconscious contentment rose through Spock's chest and vibrated through both their bodies.

It always made Jim feel warm, like he was being filled up with hot water, even though there wasn't _really _any change in temperature.

Jim called the sound purring. Spock...didn't. Either way, Jim had discovered it the morning after the first time they slept together. Being used to women, Jim was also used to toying with someone's hair when they slept, and when Spock had started...not purring, he'd gotten a bit of a shock. And then promptly decided that that was really fucking hot, and kept doing it.

That morning, Spock stirred into consciousness still purring, and didn't bother to repress it, even when he blinked those dark eyes open and stared at Jim's face in mute curiosity.

"Morning," Jim said cheerfully, and kept rubbing his thumb behind the exposed ear.

Spock merely stared at him for a moment longer, before closing his eyes and returned his face to the warm skin of Jim's neck.

"You're chilly," Jim complained.

"Naturally."

Jim rolled his eyes and tugged the blankets higher. Doing it in Spock's room gave him heatstroke; doing it here meant that Spock was usually uncomfortably cool by the morning. And Jim was quite adamant on the post-coital cuddle, thank you very much, so there really wasn't much choice. Maybe he'd have to revise his opinion on no-win scenarios.

"Better?"

"I was not the one to complain," Spock returned.

"Smartass," Jim grumbled, rubbing a brisk hand over Spock's bare shoulders to warm him. "You sure you can't give those experiments this afternoon a miss?"

"Even you cannot ignore orders from the Admiralty, Jim."

Jim snorted, and grinned ruefully. They both knew he'd tried. Still, their timing sucked. The regulations stated that the Captain and First Officer were only to be both off-duty twice a month, and never on consecutive days. They were only given _any _days off together after a nasty incident between the Captain and First Officer of the _USS Santa Maria _a year ago, where they hated each other to the point that the Captain tried to have the First Officer abandoned on a planet exploration mission.

So the higher ups had decided that the Captain and First Officer would have two days a month to get to know each other outside of work. Jim didn't know which arse of a psychologist had thought that one up, but he wasn't going to complain.

Unless the Admiralty sent orders disrupting their day off with experiments.

"How long will they take?"

"An hour, at the most. Less if Lieutenant Morales is not involved."

Jim smirked. Vulcans may not 'dislike' other people, but Spock was sure doing a good job of disliking Lieutenant Morales. Mind you, from what Jim had heard, most people took a shot at disliking Morales, with high success rates.

"Dinner this evening, then?" he asked, inching his hands lower under the blankets.

Spock hummed an affirmative, and didn't stop the progress of those hands.

So Jim went for it.

* * *

The ship rocked alarmingly, and the red alert went off, only fifteen minutes after Spock had left for the science labs.

In a single, trained motion, Jim had his gold command shirt on over his t-shirt, and his undone boots on his feet. He was out of the door before the klaxon could repeat itself, and was on the bridge not seven seconds after the initial warning.

"Report!" he barked, storming towards the command chair as Sulu flew out of it and returned to his own post.

"We're under fire, sir," the helmsman reported.

"Orion trading ship, equipped with illegal weapons," Uhura added.

"Their phaser fire is definitely Klingon in origin, sir. They're an illegal trading ship."

"Illegal or not, they are by opening fire," Jim growled, sparing Spock a brief glance as he appeared on the bridge and made for his station. "Open a channel."

The alien that answered the hail was not Orion, though the green crewmembers around him certainly were, and Jim bit back a groan. The last thing they needed was an intergalactic trading ship. Those were _hell _to process.

"State your intentions by opening fire on us," Jim snapped.

The alien sneered. Jim couldn't identify the species - vaguely humanoid, with bluish skin and a face like a cat that had run into a glass door at full speed. Like an old Persian muffin of a cat that his maternal grandmother had had when she lived in Nebraska.

In short: ugly.

"Remove yourselves from our path."

"State your intentions," Jim replied.

"You will remove yourselves," the alien sneered.

"This is Federation territory, and you are an unauthorised trading ship. You will..."

The alien barked out a command in...some language Jim couldn't identify, and Uhura burst into motion at her station. So did Sulu and Chekov, as another blow rocked the ship.

"Return fire, Mr. Sulu. A warning shot. If they fire again, target their weapons and shields," Jim snapped.

Sulu did so - and continued firing after the ship shuddered again. An alarm went off and Spock's voice rose to carry to Jim.

"Engineering are reporting damage, Captain."

"Shields at eighty percent," someone else called - probably Sulu, but Jim was too focused on their options to concentrate on who said what.

"Damage to the aft phasers; they're unresponsive!" Chekov cried, and Jim scowled.

"Get that fucker off my screen!" he barked at Uhura, and turned back to the helm. "Torpedos, Mr. Sulu. Destroy them if you have to. They have no business being here, never mind attacking my ship!"

Spock straightened as if he had whiplash, and he and Uhura spoke at the same time.

"We have intruders, Captain!"

Jim shot up out of the chair at the same time as the communications array crackled to life.

"Security to Bridge! Captain, we have Orion intruders in engineering; they're beaming aboard!"

"Neutralise them!" Jim barked. "Sulu, get rid of them! Chekov, how in the hell are they getting past our shields?"

Chekov was working furiously, and Jim suspected that he had no more clue than Jim did. This wasn't supposed to be possible.

"Phaser fire reported on decks eighteen to twenty-one," Spock reported.

The ship rocked alarmingly, the lights flickered, and Spock's console exploded. He stepped back sharply, his reaction lost in Uhura's sharp cry, but the arm flung up to protect his face worked, and he didn't fall. Jim turned his attention back to the attack, confident that his First Officer had no serious injuries.

"Sulu, give it _everything_!"

Sulu was sweating, teeth gritted in a grimace, and Jim heard the dull thump of the photon torpedoes being launched at twice the recommended speed.

And over the thump, the whirr of a transporter beam.

Everyone on the bridge turned towards the intruders as one, those armed bringing up their phasers as four Orion warriors appeared on the elevated section of the bridge.

Orion warriors were commonly armed to the teeth, but not so fearsome as Klingons or Romulans on the warpath. Orion pirates were poorly trained, with mismatched weapons, and sometimes had no idea how to use them or how to effectively attack anyone. On the down side, survival of the fittest applied to Orion piracy, and you were never quite sure what you were dealing with.

Two dropped under phaser fire immediately, and the second pair followed promptly - but not before attacking three of Jim's bridge crew.

"Shoot to kill!" he snarled. "Chekov, _get our shields up to par_!"

"I can't, sir!"

Lieutenant Uhura was clutching her bleeding arm and sagging against her console. Ensign Edwards was clinging to the engineering panel, stubbornly ignoring the oozing gash across his head in favour of getting reports from engineering on the damage and the intruders.

And then Spock staggered to the ground, and Jim's guts disappeared.

"No," he muttered, and flew across the bridge to him.

The Orion had knifed him - a long, deep gash, as wide as two of Jim's fingers, cleaving right through Spock's chest, from the left shoulder down to the floating ribs on the right. The green was spilling over his clutching hands and onto the floor, bright and arterial and _thin_, pouring out like water from an upset jug.

"Oh Jesus," Jim whispered, and shot Edwards a command. "Ensign, send a request for an emergency medical crew to the bridge, _now_!"

"Captain," Spock breathed, his eyes worryingly blank. "Captain, the ship..."

Jim swallowed down the fear and nodded. "You're right. Here," he stripped off his command shirt and pressed it over the wound, folding Spock's hands over it carefully. "Keep that there until I get back, you understand."

Spock's eyes were vacant.

"Spock! Do you understand me?" Jim barked.

"...Yes, Cap...Captain..."

_Oh sweet Jesus no_.

Jim turned on his heel, before he could change his mind, and set himself back to doing his duty. "Chekov, get us out of here! Uhura, send a call to Starfleet for backup. Sulu, for the love of God, _destroy it_!"

"All intruders neutralised, sir!" Edwards croaked, and Jim felt a minute amount of pressure lifting.

And then the Orion ship exploded.

A cheer went up, but Jim completely ignored it, bolting across the bridge back to Spock before the trading ship was even halfway gone, and screaming for that medical team.

He landed on his knees beside the prone Vulcan. Uhura was already there, her hands small and dark in the wash of green that had eaten Jim's shirt, still pressing the sodden material uselessly to the gaping wound.

"Spock, Spock, come on," Jim breathed, squeezing one limp hand desperately. The Vulcan was ash-grey underneath that already pale complexion, his muscles slack, and his eyes - horribly vacant - drifting in their sockets. "Spock, please. Come on, talk to me. Answer me!"

The turbolift doors hissed open, and a southern voice swore. In a pounding of footsteps, McCoy joined them, shifting Uhura aside gently and ripping open his medical bag.

"Get those on it!" McCoy barked, passing gauze pads to Jim and tearing the gold shirt away to begin packing the wound. It was still bleeding profusely, the brilliant green shocking and harsh to Jim's eyes. "Spock! _Commander_! Answer me!"

The rank got a hint of a flicker, but it was gone again before the doctor or the captain could be sure of its existence.

"Spock, Spock, stay with me..." Jim begged.

The blood was _everywhere - _staining his hands, his clothes, his shirt was drowned in it. It glowed on his black undershirt, and stained the knees of his trousers where he'd been kneeling in it. The undersides of his boots, doubtless, would never be the same.

"Jim, move."

He was pushed aside just enough for the orderlies to lift Spock onto the stretcher. McCoy was yelling into his communicator, demanding supplies to be set up in Sickbay, and Jim felt his strength wavering at the list.

_Be prepared for CPR._

"Mr. Sulu..." he began, voice shaking.

"Go, Captain," the helmsman said firmly. "We've got this. I'll call you if there's a problem."

For a split second, Jim wanted to kiss him, then he hauled ass and got himself in the turbolift with the medical staff before they could whisk the Vulcan away from him.

God, the green was beginning to seep into the stretcher as well. How much damn blood could one Vulcan _carry_?

"Talk to him, Jim, try and keep him awake and aware," McCoy muttered, frantically doling out hyposprays. The tricorder was whining unhappily with its overuse. "I'm not sure he_ is _aware, but try and get a response."

"Spock," Jim's voice broke - he heard himself, and hated the noise, but couldn't help it. "Oh God, Spock, please. Come on, please. It's just a knife wound, right? Just some Orion pirate. There's...there's more logical ways to go?"

McCoy didn't even comment, his face stern and almost Vulcan in its stillness.

"Come on, Spock, please," Jim whispered, gathering up a limp hand. "Can you squeeze my hand? Please? Can't you...?"

Nothing - the turbolift doors hissed open and then they were moving again, haring along the corridor to Sickbay - and there...

There, Jim was left behind. Tossed aside onto a biobed, brought a blanket for the shock by a nurse, and left to...to...

To watch.

And God, he didn't want to watch. He didn't want to hear McCoy's swearing, or the machines screaming, or the calm-but-urgent voices of the nurses bouncing back and forth, or the whine and charge of...oh God, _no_, not the paddles!

Hating himself for needing to do it, he dropped down from the biobed and shuffled into McCoy's office, closing the doors behind him and curling up in the visitors' chair.

He _couldn't watch that_. Couldn't watch Spock being torn into as they tried to save him, couldn't watch the struggle, couldn't...

He choked back a strangled sob.

It was 1500 hours. The whole thing had taken fifteen minutes, maximum, and now...Jim choked again, and felt the tears rising. The experiments would have been done by now. They should be in his quarters, making up for their interrupted morning. He was going to talk Spock into melding them in the middle of sex again, because last time had blown everything that could be blown. And then they would have gone to dinner, in the mess, and ignored the knowing looks from the crew as they very carefully didn't touch in public, even though everybody knew, and...

And, oh God, he was in McCoy's office, and...

And it was quiet.

Jim lifted his hand from the desk and his folded arms (when had they got there?) in time to see the doors hiss open, and McCoy stand in the doorway.

His face was haggard, and worn, and...heavy.

"Jim."

"Bones?" Jim croaked. "Bones, please. Please. He's...is he?"

Bones swallowed, and looked away.

"Jim," he said again, and his voice vanished halfway through the syllable.

His face told Jim everything he needed to know.

* * *

Jim liked green, right up until the moment it all went wrong.


End file.
